THE GHOSTWRITER

PART 3

"Good morning," Maine greets the ghosts in the kitchen, still yawning a bit. She hears Sammy mumble a greeting as she sits down in her usual chair by the counter.

Patiently and a little sleepily, she waits for Sammy to serve her breakfast. The truth is, Maine values her independence and feels uncomfortable when others do things for her, but these ghosts feel better when they are allowed to do things they could have done if they're still human. Being sensitive to these entities' needs, Maine allows them these tiny privileges.

"Good morning, Maine," Pi says while sitting, or rather floating, beside her. "Did you have a good sleep? I bet you didn't because you have puffy eye bags."

Maine could have hit him if She could. "Obviously."

"You didn't greet Jeffrey," Pi points out.

"Huh?" Maine mumbles sleepily.

Pi clucks at her and points his mouth towards something or rather someone on her other side. Maine turns her head and almost falls down the stool.

"Good morning, Maine," Jeffrey greets him happily, but Maine fails to hear his next words because her eyes are focused on what Jeffrey is doing.

He is... eating, ghost style. And Maine thinks it's like watching a food processor. She could see the food go inside Jeffrey's mouth, then chewed, then swallowed, then digested (more like grounded), before they find their way into the floor as dirt.

No wonder Sammy is in a bad mood.

Maine snaps out from her impolite staring and mumbles a good morning back before turning her face back towards Pi. The ghost is smirking at her and Maine sticks her tongue out, making Pi laugh.

"Eat up," Sammy commands as he places a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Maine. It takes him less than ten seconds to pour the writer a cup of coffee before floating in front of her in his favorite position---the Indian seat.

Sammy's hard gaze falls on Jeffrey. The latter ignores him and keeps on eating and keeps on littering the floor with his ghostly wastes.

"Ugh. Oi, you clean your mess after you eat!" Sammy shouts. Jeffrey hums his agreement and doesn't even look at the other.

"Tss," Sammy whispers and turns to Maine, deciding to belt his irritation on her. "You. What happened to you and Richard? Why did he come home looking like his heart was broken? And why is he avoiding you?"

Maine almost choked on her coffee. Pi reaches out to pat her on the back, but of course his effort is futile. When Maine recovers, she tries to shrug nonchalantly.

"I thought you know," the writer mumbles.

"We don't ask him things when he looks that pathetic. It's like asking for a bomb to explode," Sammy responds impatiently. "Fine. Don't tell us. But don't complain if Richard avoids you forever."

Maine almost drops her coffee mug as she stills. "What? He'll do that?"

Pi sighs dramatically.

"Yeah. Richard's a bit childish. Like a five-year-old. There's this time when Sammy promised he'd teach Richard to channel his spiritual energy so he could use the guitar upstairs in exchange of one of Richard's magazines he nicked somewhere. Sammy didn't think it was impossible because we could touch other things, but Richard thought Sammy lied to him when Sammy himself couldn't touch the guitar and didn't talk to him for almost a month."

Maine looks like she swallowed a bitter pill. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Sammy affirms. "You should know, Mendoza, that Richard is the most affected among us about our lack of memories. We were too, Peter and I, when we first woke up as floating, translucent beings. But Pi is a pretty happy-go-lucky guy and decided he'd rather live his ghost life happy than sad so he'd gotten over it quickly. I, on the other hand, once I discovered that ghosts can actually touch objects, developed a fondness for cooking." He glows a bit at that. "I had something to focus on. It's natural to me. I feel like I was probably a baker or a chef when I was alive. I found a connection with my human self even though I wasn't sure about it. Richard... well, Richard found an instant liking to music, but Pi already told you he can't touch the guitar. I can't too. It seems we really have limits. This is probably what sets us apart from the living. These limits---"